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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343740">The Thirteenth Guest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps'>cinnamonsnaps</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Branding, Demons, Fantasy, Hell, M/M, essentially this is like 3k of sexy evil flirting, i do not know how to tag original works</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:21:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343740</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose," Jun said, leaning forward, putting himself in danger, Vaahänat could hear the sizzle of his hair frying as he got closer, "that I'm simply an incorrigible little git who gets anywhere it's not supposed to. And I suppose," he said, seemingly entranced by Vaahänat's left hand, "that I wanted to see what it was like down here. If it matched all the rumours." </p><p>In which a bard waltz into Hell to flirt with a demon, and ends up waltzing right back out again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Thirteenth Guest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is my first time posting original fic on ao3 haha....... nervis</p><p>it's mostly here so i can show people without linking my personal google docs </p><p>Vaahänat belongs to my friend and Jun belongs to me!! anyway enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Great Lord Vaahänat, Bringer of the End of Days, Eternal Flame, reclined in his chair at the end of the table and watched the dinner proceed with half lidded eyes. His eleven most distinguished guests were laughing to themselves, tittering, brittle things, and throwing him nervous looks as if he wouldn't notice. As if he cared. Fools, sycophants, loyal servants. His dinnermates. A mixture of races and genders, none of it mattered - the only thing that interested him was that they were so very aware of just how flammable they were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Our lord grows bored and listless," the insufferable woman to his right called, face hidden under the customary red veil that showed only her sharp smile. "Entertainment is in order."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pity that we forgot to order a bard," another guest said, horns curving into their neck, gold leafed and shining. "We shall have to entertain ourselves."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bards," another spat, "the closest thing to a whore without the saving grace of modesty. Let us not sully the party with talk of bards."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You sound bitter, my friend," the first lady teased. "Have you had a bad experience with them?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Haven't we all," a guest chimed in. "Half don't play well, and the other half are too busy pocketing your silver. Or fiddling your wife." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of this interested Vaahänat. He tapped idly with his finger, sets of threes, irritation building like bile at the back of his mouth. He hated these dinners. Hated sitting here and performing. Hated the burning meat smell, the slow roast of the body on the pit, the peel and crackle of skin. He made eye contact with the victim. It looked as if it were having the same amount of fun as he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enough about bards. Fancy us a ghost story?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, not from you. You never tell them well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guest reared back, offended, but Vaahänat raised a hand, and all stilled. Smiles crystallised. He could smell the fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spoke, and every ear strained to listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A new story."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence. He grew yet more irritated. What was the point of having loyal brainwashed servants if they didn't do what he asked? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have a story," one brave, tremulous voice ventured. It paused for a second, as if waiting to be burned. When no flames came, it continued: "it's of what happened at the Midsommar Ball, at ill fated King Aelsyphus' banquet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaahänat nodded his assent, and the guest seemed relieved. It continued: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was a sore dark night when the sun finally set, just below the horizon. Sore darker than it should have been. The old king sat with his knights in his chambers, and they played cards together. He began to suspect that something wasn't right. After all, his knights usually needed eleven chairs, eleven around the table, eleven cups of mead, eleven hands to deal. And yet every time he dealt a new round, he found himself dealing for twelve. Trembling, he counted heads. An extra knight was there. And yet, as he looked from face to face, he recognised them all. Fearing an interloping guest, he spoke slowly to his loyal knights:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My friends, let any man who is loyal to me call loud for my son, for I am feeling gravely ill, and wish to see him before I grow too weak to stay awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knights did not move. He asked again: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Are none brave enough? Do none love me enough to call for my son? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One knight called out, and the king immediately stood up and ran him through with his sword. He believed he had gotten the interloper, the spy, for very few people knew the king's son was entirely deaf. Yet when he examined the body, he saw it was his favourite, a dear friend who had protected him many times and given all to him. This was no intruder." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The thirteenth guest!" a different voice suddenly interrupted. "This is an old story. Yes, it ends with him killing every knight in paranoia, before dealing two hands and realising that there was no thirteenth guest. Or something similar."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were general moans from the guests at the interruption and the ruined story, and the unpleasant woman hissed "this is why I hate it when you tell stories!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How auspicious that there are twelve of us tonight then," one guest tittered, clearly in their cups. "One more away from a ghost story."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Silly wench can't count," another guest laughed, "for I count thirteen of us in total."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause and a general shuffle as people counted heads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nay, there are twelve," a guest said again. "Including Our Lord, merciful and cruel. Eleven disciples. One Lord." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you count?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course I did!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you count yourself too?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An awkward silence. People were counting again. Vaahänat watched as a sudden discomfort rippled through the room, and privately, he did his own count. The smell of sulfur rose from the floor as he counted, including himself: thirteen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Our Lord must have laid an extra place for a new disciple," a guest tittered nervously. "Nothing more."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I invited no other guests," Vaahänat said, and the room stilled once more. Fear stank, bitter and rank, between the sulfur stench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Count again," someone said in a hoarse voice, but there was no need. Every count came to thirteen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally. Finally something interesting. Vaahänat looked from veiled face to veiled face, all hidden, all formless under the red fabric. Lips wet with spit from the wine and the meat. Sharp teeth. Burned skin, twisted into scarred patterns. All disciples bore the damage of his mercy, as they should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a bored sweep of his hand, he sent a wave of flame forth, and swallowed the banquet whole. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the last embers fell into themselves, the smoke clearing, Vaahänat did another headcount. One. Just one, himself. His disciples were no more than ash, the table a blackened stump, and he was once more alone. His mouth twisted down in dissatisfaction. A myth that didn't follow through. Or rather, a myth that ended all too poorly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No finesse," a melodious voice sang just behind him. He turned, and there, just behind his chair, sat a brown haired man with a rather smug expression. "I prefer it when they start killing one by one. Draws it out. More tension."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something wrong about him. Something so very slightly off. A human, but. Brown haired, but. His eyes, brown and flat, correct in every detail, shouldn't have felt so strange and wrong. Perhaps it was years of glamour abuse. Perhaps it was something else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What form is this?" Vaahänat gestured to the human, to his skin, his hair. "What a mundane face to hide behind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stranger looked offended. "This is my face. I think it's quite handsome. Don't insult a guest."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaahänat nodded his head in recognition of his thirteenth guest. "Are you going to introduce yourself, stranger?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shook his head. "No, since there's nothing to introduce. I suppose you could call me Jun, if you pleased." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jun," Vaahänat said, rolling the word around his forked tongue with purpose. "Know where you are, Jun?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A rather terrible barbecue."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hell," Vaahänat corrected him, and using a little magic, produced a seat for the bard. He bade him sit, and he did, slinking over between the piles of ash. "A fun party trick. I hope it was worth an eternity in my domain."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jun made eye contact - daring, rude, nobody made eye contact and lived - before looking away, seemingly unimpressed. "I don't see any bars keeping me here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And your plan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose," Jun said, leaning forward, putting himself in danger, Vaahänat could </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> the sizzle of his hair frying as he got closer, "that I'm simply an incorrigible little git who gets anywhere it's not supposed to. And I suppose," he said, seemingly entranced by Vaahänat's left hand, "that I wanted to see what it was like down here. If it matched all the rumours." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Satisfied?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For now." Vaahänat watched as the bard drew back, and the blackened, roasted tips of his hair somehow knit themselves back into their glossy former state. "Looks like you need some more disciples. I don't suppose you have an opening for a bard?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You realise what you're asking for?" Vaahänat said, and there was the drawn out noise of metal scraping against stone as he reached for something by his chair. "People I own stay mine forever. Beyond death, even." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You won't own me," the bard scoffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaahänat produced what he had been drawing forth. A brand, triple pronged with his insignia, already burning white hot at the tip. Where to put his mark on this strange creature? The neck? That seemed best. He grabbed Jun's hair and yanked his head sideways as he had done to so many disciples before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mark me and you lose your lure," Jun said, and Vaahänat paused, perplexed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your lure! Your pretty songbird. People won't trust me with the brand. Let me waltz out of here, and I can bring you sheaves of followers, fresh and starry eyed, ready for roasting."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard, to his credit, didn't sound panicked - Vaahänat had been expecting negotiation, pleading, anger, but not a straightforward offer off the bat. He made a thoughtful noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nowhere visible, then," he said, dropped the brand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Visible?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bards. So reliant on music. Weak magic, easy to manipulate, to distract, to distort and tug on. The music that thrummed just under eyesight, out of mortal hearing, that churned under the bard's skin. Vaahänat reached forward, and tapped three times sharply. The music in the bard changed. He could see it happen. Three knocks. Three beats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, I see," Jun said, and his face looked masklike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>waltz</span>
  </em>
  <span> out," Vaahänat said, hiding a smile, "so I grant you your wish." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can work with this." He slid away from Vaahänat, steps faltering, and though he tried to fight the new rhythm in him, it came through like rust under metal: his finger twitched three times, his feet stumbled one two three, his breathing coming in triplicate. "It'll be fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thirteen days," Vaahänat said, voice low. He did not need to say "or else". They both knew what that meant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll have it done in three," Jun said. He looked back, and somehow had the audacity to wink: there was a complicated motion, the bright, alien smell of bardic magic, and sure enough, Jun was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaahänat paused, before sinking into his chair, hand reaching up to massage the spot just under his horn. He had the upper hand, of course he did. He just marked a fool and sent him on a mission, which was almost standard procedure. But it had felt so easy. It felt like a dance, with steps he didn't know, to music he couldn't hear. He had the upper hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Didn't he? </span>
</p>
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